Fly Me to the Moon
by Darker Still
Summary: Songfic. Starla never could have known that breaking into 223 Fondamenta Bollani would lead to falling for the one guy in Venice she wishes she hadn't. ScipXOC.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: "Fly Me to the Moon"—Frank Sinatra. I adore him :) I think I'm obsessed with songfics now. Anyway, reviews are great. This could be a possible one-shot, though most likely it's going to have a bunch of following chapters, if I can find the inspiration to keep it going. The ending's a little cheesy—and it feels a bit rushed :/**

**DISCLAIMER: I'm most definitely not Cornelia Funke, so **_**The Thief Lord**_** doesn't belong to me. Sad day.**

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**(1)**

Starla Gabrelovic was having a bad night. A bad night in a string of particularly bad nights.

While ransacking a house for food, cash, and anything of monetary value to sell off on an almost-black market, the occupants had unexpectedly come home. She'd barely escaped onto the balcony before they'd caught her in the act. She'd hidden on that balcony, in the small sliver of space between where the door ended and where the balustrade began, in such a cold winter night that she could see her breath. Her skin was instantly covered with goosebumps, and her entire body was shaking with chills. She'd waited breathlessly for the lights just beyond the French doors to go out, but angry voices—shouting in Italian—filled the room. From what little of the language she knew, Starla knew they were vocalizing their discoveries—they'd been robbed.

_God, no—not tonight,_ Starla thought, pressing even closer into the corner of the balcony. _What if they find me out here?_ She couldn't be arrested—she had her family to look after. She couldn't leave them like that. And she definitely couldn't be thrown into an orphanage again. One time had been more than enough of a lesson to tell her to be more careful.

_Damn, damn, damn,_ Starla thought as the _carabinieri _showed up. She was trapped. Of course she had the option of jumping off the balcony, but Starla wasn't an idiot. She knew she couldn't jump to the ground without breaking her ankle, or at least giving it a very bad sprain.

Terrified that the _carabinieri_ would find her, Starla briefly considered trying to climb onto the roof. She quickly realized that, even if she stood on the balustrade, she was still too short. She hit the smooth stone of the house with her fist in frustration.

When she finally heard the voices in the room begin to fade, and her breath caught. Was she safe? Was the possibility of escape—without killing herself in the process—within her reach?

Just as she started to inch towards the French doors to peek in and see if the coast was clear, when the glass door suddenly opened, coming _that_ close to introducing her nose to the back of her skull.

She resisted the urge to shriek and/or shout obscenities at whoever had done it, and she stepped back into her corner again, covering her mouth with her fist and biting her knuckle.

The man—the boy, she quickly realized—who had stepped out onto the balcony was no older than her sixteen years. Judging by his expensive clothing, Starla knew he had to be the son of the household. Despite the fact he could easily find her and expose her, Starla took her chance to size him up. He was tall and lanky—but not bone-thin like her starved friends. He had dark hair that was particularly glossy, and olive-toned skin from what she could see.

Definitely Italian, Starla assumed. She wondered if she'd be able to slip past him or…ask for his help? She contemplated the dangers of doing just that. She figured there was a 99% chance he would rat her out to the police, but that tiny 1% was hopeful that maybe he would understand, that maybe he'd help her escape.

But was it worth the risk?

Starla had never been much of a risk taker—she only broke into houses because it was necessary. She shook every second she was in a place where she didn't belong. But she was like a mother to Sierra and Michael, the two who weren't cut out for a life like this—she had to provide for them, since nobody else would.

Starla shifted her weight from foot to foot, still trying to force herself to make a decision, when a voice inside the house barked, "_Scipio!_"

Starla's breath caught as the boy turned around in response, and he saw her, in the shadows and clutching a bag full of things that didn't belong to her—so clearly the culprit of the burglary.

If he was shocked to see her there, it didn't show in his expression. His eyes lingered on her for only a moment before returning to the man who had called him inside.

The boy answered in fluent Italian, sounding sheepish, and the voice barked again.

Starla struggled to keep up with the language, trying to translate it in her head. The man inside had said something along the lines of, _"You'll catch your death outside in that cold," _and his son had replied, _"I'll be inside in a moment." _Or so she thought. Starla wasn't quite sure; Italian was something she still struggled with, and they spoke so quickly she couldn't keep up.

She held her breath, waiting until she heard heavy footsteps fade away.

The boy glanced back at her, silent and with questions in his eyes.

Starla inched out from behind the glass door, but didn't move any closer.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, averting her eyes to the ground, feeling her face redden with humiliation. She realized she'd said it in English, and quickly amended, "_Spiacente_."

She was shocked when the boy answered in English. "You're not from around here, are you?" he asked so quietly Starla could have missed it.

She looked up, biting on her bottom lip as she so often did when her heart raced in her chest.

"No."

"You're American," he assumed.

"Yes," Starla answered, shifting her weight again. "I shouldn't have come here," she blurted, overcome with a ridiculous amount of guilt. "I'm so sorry." She shoved her bag into his arms. "I deserve to be turned into the _carabinieri._"

She blinked down at her feet, clad in worn-and-torn sneakers, ashamed of herself for stealing and for being stupid enough to be caught.

The boy suddenly handed the bag back to her, folding her fingers around it. The skin-on-skin contact with a stranger made her jump. "You need this more than I do," he said, glancing at the French doors to make sure his father wasn't anywhere near the balcony. "I understand."

Starla brushed her bangs from her eyes, looking at him in shock. She felt it was too good to be true. "Do you really?"

The boy had a gorgeous smile. "You have no idea."

Starla's cheeks heated up again, but this time it didn't have anything to do with humiliation.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I'll leave as soon as I can." She looked over the balustrade in distaste, not looking forward to it.

"Don't be stupid; you'll kill yourself if you leave that way." The boy caught her by the elbow. "You'll just have to wait. I'll hide you until everyone's asleep."

Starla almost felt herself swelling with gratefulness, but she was still in a state of disbelief. Why would this boy, this rich boy who had everything, possibly help her, the poor girl who had nothing?

"Wait here." The boy went through the doors and into the study that Starla had been wandering through when the family had come home. He went to the large double doors, then peered out into the hallway. Starla waited breathlessly, still nibbling on her lip, until he turned gave her a _follow-me_ gesture.

Starla tentatively left the balcony, easing the glass doors shut behind her. She walked on her toes across the shiny marble floor of the study, silent from much practice of avoiding making any kind noise in an unfamiliar house. She hesitantly took the boy's outstretched hand, then let him lead her to a supposedly safe place.

She felt so exposed in the huge corridor, and she was nearly hyperventilating from the threat of being discovered.

Once again making sure that the coast was clear, the boy opened a single door to a darkened bedroom.

He shut the door behind them, and Starla whispered, "Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?"

"I can tell by the way you're so terrified to be here that you're not doing this for yourself." His dark eyes twinkled from the sparse amount of moonlight that seeped in through the window. "You're doing this to help somebody else."

Starla looked at the ground again. "I take care of my friends. We don't have anyone else but each other. We do what we can to get by."

"Not many people would do this."

"They're my family," Starla answered, looking up. "I'd do anything for them."

The boy nodded.

"I'm so sorry," she said again.

"Stop apologizing. Don't be sorry unless you get caught. You're not sorry to be keeping your friends alive, are you?"

Startled by his sudden statement, Starla shook her head.

She bit her lip again as he asked her, "What's your name?"

"I don't know if I should tell you."

The boy sighed. "If you're still convinced I'm going to turn you in, you can convince yourself otherwise. I'm not going to say anything to anyone about you." He smiled, then held out his hand. "I'm Scipio."

Starla looked at him warily, but shifted the bag to her other hand so she could slip her hand into his. "Starla."

"That's unique."

"Former hippie parents." Starla blushed again. "Scipio's not exactly a name you hear on the street everyday either."

He smiled quickly, but then it faded. "What happened to them? Your parents? Something had to have happened to make you leave America."

"I'm not obligated to tell you that," she said. She had to draw the line somewhere. He may have saved her from a terrible fate, but that didn't give this Scipio an all-access pass to her life story. She didn't like thinking about her parents anyway.

Starla swallowed against the lump in her throat as Scipio stared her down with those dark, dark eyes. He finally shrugged. "I guess you're not."

"How long will I have to wait do you think?" she asked hesitantly.

"Every day of their lives is like clockwork—crisis or not, I'm sure the lights will all be out by eleven."

Starla spotted a digital clock beside the bed and saw it wasn't even ten.

"That's a long time," she murmured anxiously, wringing her hands. She set the heavy bag down on the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. "My friends will worry. They always do."

Scipio came and sat beside her, with little space between them. "If you won't tell me about your parents, will you at least tell me about your friends?"

"What makes them so interesting?" Starla picked at a hangnail on her thumb.

"We need something to talk about to pass the time, right?"

Her lips lifted into a smile without her telling them to. "I suppose we do." She sighed, then found herself watching the clock again. She told him about them all—Jack, Sebastian, Sierra, and Michael, though she tried to reserve some of their privacy. She knew that Sierra, especially, wouldn't want a stranger knowing a single thing about her. She eventually found herself telling him about the small café where she worked part-time as a waitress, about how Jack would play his guitar at night and Starla would sing little Michael to sleep with lullabies. She told him about what her home in Jersey had been like before she left it behind her. He had her talking about nothing and bearing the slightest bit of her soul for hours.

"They're going to be so angry with me," she said, interrupting herself when she caught sight of the midnight time. Scipio had promised her the lights would be out by now, but gold was still seeping in through under the door.

"I'm sure, given the circumstances, they'll cut you some slack." Scipio leaned back against the pillow, then suddenly said, "Look."

The light that leaked from underneath the door had disappeared, and Starla listened intently, hearing sleepy voices walking down the corridor. She heard a door down the hallway shut.

They waited several minutes to be sure that the house would be experiencing no more activity for the night.

Scipio, though, checked the hallway once again before taking Starla's hand again and leading her through the dark, chilly house. Their footsteps seemed so loud on the marble floors, but the house was huge and cave-like; Starla knew that just had to be the way the sounds echoed.

They reached the huge front door—a massive rectangle of wood that towered over the both of them—and Scipio unlocked it and stepped out into the cold.

Starla breathed the icy winter air into her lungs, relieved to be outside again, beside a glittering canal that reflected the silvery moon. A smile fell upon her lips, and she turned to Scipio, suddenly wishing she didn't have to leave.

"How can I ever thank you?" she asked. "I owe you, so much."

He grinned. "You don't owe me anything, Starla."

"No. Don't do that. You're not getting rid of that debt because you don't think it's necessary. It is. You have to want something." She suddenly realized there was a hole in her logic. Scipio lived in this huge house, with priceless items all around him, and his parents were probably so rich they could buy him anything he wanted. What could he possibly want from her?

What a stupid thing to say. She mentally slapped herself.

When he remained silent, Starla felt her cheeks burn again. "I should go," she said, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "Thank—"

Scipio suddenly caught her hand again, lacing his fingers through hers.

"Don't disappear," he said, startling her. "Don't disappear like you're from a dream."

Starla didn't know what to say.

"I want to see you again," he said, sounding serious.

Her breath caught, her heart raced, and she bit her lip.

She felt oddly like she was suddenly trapped in a romance novel—right in the beginning, where the characters who were destined to become lovers just met, with the entire story laid out in front of them.

She didn't want to throw this chance away like she so often did.

"_Il gatto ballante,_" she said, butchering the music of the name with her awful American accent. "The Dancing Cat. Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Ask for Monica."

"Why?"

"That's me. Alias." She smiled.

Scipio grinned, then slowly released her hand. The spaces between Starla's fingers felt empty.

"I'll be seeing you," Scipio said, unknowingly quoting one of Starla's favorite songs.

He was almost back inside before she suddenly realized she didn't want him to leave yet.

"Scipio!" she said, almost too loudly.

He stopped and turned, and Starla was overwhelmed by the urge to hug him. She threw her arms around his neck, in a way much different than when she hugged Jack or Sebastian.

His arms curved around her waist in response, and Starla wondered why it felt like they fit so perfectly together.

"Thank you," she said for maybe the thousandth time that night. "_Grazie,_" she threw in, hoping she sounded cute and not stupid.

He laughed a little, and Starla hoped it wasn't because she'd crossed a line and made him uncomfortable.

"You're welcome."

Starla stepped back the tiniest bit, and wished she could look at his eyes long enough that she could still see them even when he wasn't anywhere near her. She wanted to kiss him.

_Don't notice the line until you've already crossed it,_ Starla's conscience scolded her.

She let go and stepped back even further.

"I'll be seeing you," she said, repeating his words back to him.

Starla didn't want to leave, but it was well past midnight now. She had to get home.

She turned and walked away, wishing she didn't have to, but knowing she couldn't afford to stay.

She glanced back over her shoulder once and saw those dark eyes watching her until she left the Fondamenta Bollani.

As she walked home, Starla Gabrelovic realized that her bad night had really turned around.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Song: "Chocolate"—Snow Patrol. Definitely not a one-shot. I really like this story :) PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE review? I feel like a loser when I keep writing, keep getting reads, but don't get any feedback :/ This chapter's mostly a filler, just to take up space & introduce you to Starla's family. Sorry it's so short.**

**DISCLAIMER: I'm most definitely not Cornelia Funke, so **_**The Thief Lord**_** doesn't belong to me. Sad day.**

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**(2)**

Starla ran the entire way home, uplifted by her runner's high. She knew the system of mazelike alleyways by the old abandoned church so well she could probably navigate them with her eyes closed. She didn't slow to a jog until she reached the run-down chapel.

The front doors were chained off, and for the entire year that Starla and her friends had lived in it, they hadn't been able to remove the chains to put the doors to use. Instead, they used another entrance—a derelict side door that hung open on rusted hinges. They were so horribly rusted that, no matter how many times they had tried to budge the door an inch, the door was frozen in a half-often state, just wide enough for Starla to slip through.

The church wasn't even close to the massive size of St. Mark's Basilica, but it was large enough to amplify the slightest sounds into echoes that would fill the large, empty space.

Starla let out a piercing whistle that filled every corner of the church; a low note that swept into a high note, right before dipping back down again was what they called their doorbell. It was the signal to anybody home that it wasn't an intruder inside the church. Starla waited until an identical whistle came in response.

Immediately afterwards, the dead-silent church became animated and filled with music, chatter, and laughter.

Starla smiled to herself as she climbed the steps up to the choir loft where she and her friends ate, slept, and lived.

"What took you so long?" Sierra asked, springing to her feet. "You were supposed to be back hours ago!"

"I got held up," Starla explained as she set her bag on her bed and sank languidly to the floor, leaning against the side of her mattress. "But I still got here, didn't I?" She raised her eyebrows at Sierra, who frowned at her.

Sierra was thirteen, with sun-bleached blond hair and warm brown eyes. She'd run away from her home in Orange County, California when her parents had divorced. When they'd split, it'd really taken a toll on her. She left, made it across the country and ocean on her daddy's money, and had been fortunate enough to encounter Starla and the other runaways before running into anyone else who wasn't as friendly.

Starla considered herself to be the founder of the family, the matriarch. She'd been kicked out of her home by her mother a couple years ago, and in the process of looking for a place to stay permanently, had met Jack and Sebastian outside of Rome. They'd been nearly inseparable ever since. The three of them had lived nomadically and sporadically around the poorer parts of Venice until they'd discovered the church. Then Sierra and Michael had come along.

Jack was an American, too, from Colorado. He was decent-looking, Starla supposed, with sandy-blond hair that was really more brown than blond and a wide, perpetual smile. But, in Starla's skeptical mind, he was too much of a clown to be seriously considered as a significant other. As long as Starla had known him, she had no idea about what had happened with his family—if he was an orphan, if he'd been kicked out like her, or if he'd run away like Sierra. She had it in her mind that she could be his best friend for the rest of their lives and she would still never know why he was on his own.

Sebastian was French, with coffee-dark skin and hair in wild dreadlocks. He had midnight-dark eyes and a gleaming white smile. The girls had nicknamed him "Casanova" because of how wildly charming and flirtatious he was with the Italian girls they passed in the alleyways or encountered in shops and cafés. But then, Sebastian was ridiculously good-looking; girls were drawn to him like moths to a flame. He'd run away from home for no good reason, apparently. _"Just felt like it one day,_" he'd said with a shrug. _"C'est la vie."_

The last member of their family was a little nine-year-old boy named Michael. He was a shy, tiny little boy, with huge hazel eyes and dark hair in a constant state of disarray. He was always timid around people he didn't know, but being so young, he had that miraculous ability to pick up languages; he was bilingual with both English and Italian, and he acted as a translator for the rest of them when they couldn't keep up with the language themselves. Michael, like Jack, never spoke about his origin, but they believed him to be a native Venetian, probably having run away from an orphanage. Starla had heard they were hellish; she couldn't blame anyone even as young as Michael for wanting to escape.

"_Bonsoir_," Sebastian greeted cheerfully, glancing up from the card game he'd been playing with Sierra and flashing her that blinding white smile.

"_Bonsoir_," Starla answered, knowing she couldn't make the elegant word flow off her tongue the way Sebastian could. She despised the way she butchered foreign words.

She pulled a thick blanket around her shoulders and closed her eyes for a few seconds, listening to the soft, lullaby-ish melody Jack was strumming on his old acoustic as he softly sang "Hushaby Mountain." She opened her eyes again with a sigh, then moved the bag in front of her, catching the attention of the others.

"It's bursting at the seams," Sebastian commented as Sierra sat back down, Jack stopped strumming, and Michael curled up with his head in Starla's lap.

"Did you get decent stuff this time?" Sierra complained.

Starla scowled at her. "If you don't like what I get, get it yourself."

Sierra rolled her eyes, but didn't reply.

Starla started removing everything from the bag, one-by-one. "You be the judge on the decency."

"Ooh! German chocolate cake! All is forgiven." Sierra grinned widely as she grabbed the plastic container, ripped it open, and picked pieces off the cake to eat. Starla thought that was the weird thing about Sierra; no matter what she was eating, she used her fingers to bite pieces off for her.

Starla finally caught sight of the time while glancing at the digital alarm clock off to the side of the choir loft. "Oh, God, it's late. I need to sleep." She shot at look at Jack, Sierra, and Sebastian. "Don't keep me up. Please."

"But the game just got good," Sierra complained as Jack stole a piece of the cake from her.

Starla simply ignored her as she put the valuables back into the bag to sell off in the near future, handed the food to Michael to put away, and gave what money she'd found to Sebastian. She immediately settled into her cocoon of blankets and pillows, wishing she could fall asleep immediately and dream about Scipio. "Finish it in the morning," she yawned. "I provided tonight, and the deal is that you thank me by doing what I want. And I want peace and quiet so I can sleep."

Jack ceased to strum his guitar, and he set it aside before settling into his own bed. Michael followed suit, curling up in his bed next to Starla. They seemed like the only ones who ever gave any kind of regard to what she told them.

Sierra and Sebastian shared a pained look.

"Lights," Starla said, pulling a thick blanket over her head. Through the fabric, the light shining from various lamps and candles all went out in quick succession.

"_Merde_," she heard Sebastian mutter, thinking if he swore in French nobody would notice.

"Oh, please," Starla murmured, more to herself but loud enough that he could hear.

"You're lucky we humor you, Gabrelovic" Sierra said, pronouncing her last name wrong like she always did, saying _Gabriel-vic_.

"Sierra?"

"Mm?"

"Shut up. You talk too loud."

She heard Sierra mutter angrily to herself as Sebastian chuckled.

"You owe me," Sierra whispered, her voice sounding so loud in the vast emptiness of the church.

"How many times have you said that?" Starla asked, her voice muffled by the blanket and oncoming sleep.

"I lost count after fifty a few months back."

"How many times have I actually paid off that _debt_?"

"The count is still at zero."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: "Who We Were"—Lifehouse. I'm in such a rush to get to the real plot; I'm excited :) Review, please, since it's my birthday today (no really, it is). I'm at the big 1-6 :) Sorry this one's short, too, but I'm trying to update as many stories as possible today.**

**DISCLAIMER: I'm most definitely not Cornelia Funke, so **_**The Thief Lord**_** doesn't belong to me. Sad day.**

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**(3)**

In the weeks after Starla's fateful visit to the Fondamenta Bollani, Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays at the Dancing Cat café became the high points of every week. When she wasn't waiting on customers or serenading them on the blue-lit stage with Jack, she was anticipating the day when she would see that familiar face come through the front door.

But each and every time, she was met with disappointment.

The mysterious Scipio never appeared.

By the time the fourth week ended on a low Friday, Starla wasn't so sure she should keep hoping.

"I've noticed something about you," her friend and fellow waitress, Alma, said in her heavily accented voice. She was leaning against the counter and watching her.

Starla looked up in surprise. "Me?"

Alma grinned. "Yes, you." She pointed at the door with a pen. "You watch that door like a hawk every chance you get, _tesoro_. Why?"

"I don't watch it," Starla scoffed, glad for the lack of light so Alma wouldn't see her blush.

Alma raised her dark eyebrows, looking dubious. "No?"

"Definitely not. What makes you say that?"

Alma suddenly slumped against her hand, staring in the direction of the door with a longing expression. "You look like this. Just like this."

"I do not—"

"_Arresto_." Alma waved her hand impatiently. "Stop that. I've caught you, _ragazza_—you're waiting for someone."

Starla bit her lip.

Alma grinned widely. "Is it a boy?"

Cornered, Starla faintly nodded.

Alma clapped her hands together, smiling widely. "_Ringrazi il dio!_ You like boys!"

"Oh, God." Starla covered her eyes and started to walk away.

Alma caught her arm and pulled her back, grinning happily. "That is so sweet. Is he cute?"

"Alma—"

"Cute?" she countered, holding up her hand again.

Starla rolled her eyes and looked down, running a hand through her barely shoulder-length hair. "Very," she muttered.

Alma squealed again, and she let go of Starla's arm for a moment. That was just enough time for her to escape her clutches and hurry to Jack, who was busy tuning his guitar.

"Heard every word of that," he muttered, grinning at her. "I didn't realize you liked boys yet."

Starla glared at him. "I'm older than you."

"And yet, you're always still a couple steps behind me." He strummed his guitar with everything perfectly pitched by ear, and he turned his head to smirk at her. "Where'd all this come from?"

"None of your business, Jacqueline," she snapped, using the female name to try and get under his skin so he'd leave it alone.

For once, her teasing name didn't set him off. "How'd you meet?"

"Shut up."

"Marriage plans?"

"Jack. Shut _up_." Starla sat on a stool next to him and scowled before elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

"You're no fun," he answered, elbowing her right back before strumming the guitar chords for Sixpence None the Richer's "Kiss Me." Starla knew that half the people in the café couldn't understand a word of English, but at least she could tell that, for the most part, people were enjoying the music.

Starla and Jack performed until closing time, and while Jack packed up his guitar, Starla went to the back room to grab her coat.

As she shrugged it on, her boss appeared.

"Monica!"

As always, it took Starla a moment to realize he was talking to her. She glanced over her shoulder in response.

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "_Un ragazzo sta chiedendo voi._"

"Um." Starla struggled to translate in her head.

_A boy is asking for you._

Her heart skipped a beat.

_Finally_.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: "Risqué"—Cute is What We Aim For. So I looked up what 'Star' is in Italian, and it turns out…it's Stella. I never knew that. I love unintentional coincidences, don't you? :) This one's another shorty, but I promise the next one's going to be of decent length. Reviews give me motivation :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I'm most definitely not Cornelia Funke, so **_**The Thief Lord**_** doesn't belong to me. Sad day.**

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**(4)  
**Starla bumped into Alma in her rush to leave the back room. Alma grabbed her arm, eyes sparkling mischievously. "'_Cute_' does not do him justice." Alma giggled, winked, and went on her way.

Starla paused before she rounded the corner, took a deep breath, then swung around it. She looked around the café, with the chairs placed on the tables and Jack waiting by the door for her.

Scipio wasn't there.

Starla didn't know whether to be angry or burst into tears. _What the f—_

"Monica?"

She turned when she heard the voice, and, admittedly, her heart sank. Though she had to admit—the boy was adorable. He couldn't have been more than six or seven, and he had hair so blond it was verging on platinum. He looked like a little angel. He smiled so sweetly that Starla really had no other choice than to smile back.

Standing with the little boy was a girl and another, older boy. The girl and the boy both looked to be thirteen or fourteen, and they both had dark hair. The girl's hair was twisted into a long braid that went down the entire length of her back. The boy didn't look happy to be there, but the girl smiled warmly at Starla.

She crouched in front of the little boy. "I'm Monica."

The little boy grinned. "_Buonasera_," he said fluently. He held out a folded-up piece of paper that looked expensive. "This is for you."

Confused, Starla hesitantly took the paper. "Are you sure?" She didn't know who these people were. Why would they have a note for her? From who?

The little boy nodded eagerly, and then the girl spoke. "We had a pretty accurate description of you."

Starla was wide-eyed. "What?"

The girl just smiled and shrugged. "We'll be seeing you," she said, elbowing the boy who hadn't said a word the entire time. He forced a smile, nodded to Starla, then started for the door. The girl followed him, calling over her shoulder to the smaller boy, "Come on, Bo."

The little boy smiled brilliantly at Starla. "_Buonanotte, _Monica," he said sweetly, skipping off after the girl.

Jack watched them go, then shot Starla a questioning look. "The hell was that about?" he asked, walking over to her as she turned the note over in her hands.

"I dunno," she answered, slowly beginning to unfold it.

The handwriting was unfamiliar, but it made her breath catch.

_Starla—I'm sorry I couldn't be there tonight. Meet me at the Ponte dei Sospiri tonight at midnight.—Scipio_


End file.
